


Thirty

by Deepdarkwaters



Series: Bespoke [3]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Gangbang, M/M, Polyamory, Sex Tapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 09:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11964210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: Harry's on a mission overseas, but that doesn't mean Merlin has to miss his thirtieth birthday party.





	Thirty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/gifts).



> [Read this first](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7886833/chapters/18015070) if you want a little bit of background, but you don't need to - basically it's the early 90s, Merlin is still Gawain, and Harry's fallen in love unexpectedly on a long undercover mission abroad.
> 
> Important casting visuals: [Ira](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/77/ce/0b/77ce0b49a1720be6a9f57f602d06020e.jpg) | [Gibson](http://workoutscheduleking.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/vin1.jpg) | [Sazerac](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ed/eb/71/edeb710f0a6921b1d8487d46616eb8df--the-rock-dwayne-johnson-rock-johnson.jpg)
> 
> Jossed: This verse is even more AU than before now we've got a bunch of new canon details. In this, Merlin/Gawain's real name is Mark, and Kingsman and Statesman know each other exist.

Harry's thirtieth birthday comes to Gawain in a box delivered by courier.

It's addressed to him in a hand he doesn't recognise, no less lovely than Harry's graceful copperplate but smaller and spiked at the loops where Harry prefers extravagant, fluid curves. The capitals of "Mr" and "Mark" stand towering tall above the smaller letters, the S of "Smith" slicing lightning-like across the grain of the paper envelope he teases out from underneath the parcel string.

At his feet, Mr Pickle woofs a curiously human little noise, always as inquisitive - or nosy - as Harry himself is any time Gawain gets an interesting-looking letter.

"Well, it's not the gas bill, I know that much," Gawain tells him, nudging the front door shut with his hip and taking the box through to the living room to open.

Mr Pickle's been slowing down for months, enough so that it gives Gawain a lingering feeling of dread any time he thinks too hard about how much longer this mission is going to keep Harry out of the country, but the little beast is almost vibrating with delight at being acknowledged and Gawain feels like a bit of a bastard now. He doesn't care about dogs, never has, but he cares an impossible amount about what makes Harry happy, so he beckons Mr Pickle with a jerk of his head to join him on the sofa. The warm furry little bundle of him settles against the side of Gawain's thigh, unwelcome but tolerable, as he begins to pick neatly at the seal of the envelope and at last unfolds a short letter written in that same neat, angular hand.

_Dear Mr Smith,_

_Harry is watching me write this from his bed. He's a little bruised and very tired, but smiling like - well, I guess you know what he looks like when he smiles. He asked me to mail you this videotape and to tell you he loves you very much. He wanted to write his own note but he's having a little trouble holding the pen steady._

_I've never met a guy like yours before and I don't know what to do with him, but I'm sure doing my best to learn. He insisted you'll be thrilled with the tape. I hope so._

_Sincerely,  
Ira Gilbert_

"Right," Gawain says after a moment, because the room feels far too quiet suddenly with nothing but the sound of his blood beating in his ears. He finds himself pressing his palm flat to the front of his jumper, almost able to feel the flutter of butterflies tickling the inside of his stomach even through the layers of flesh and fabric. Ira; he knows that name. He's teased Harry about that name, about how often it appears in his letters. In hushed phonecalls from the back of his plane heading out to missions he's asked Harry a million fascinated questions about his new infatuation: _What's Ira's favourite colour suit on you? The first time Ira made you come, was it in his mouth or on his fingers? How many? Tell me what it feels like when you wake up and you're still in Ira's arms. That's new._

He takes his shoe off to slit the brown tape on the parcel with the toe blade, far too impatient to go and find something more sensible. Mr Pickle beside him raises his head from his paws and gives Gawain a head-cocked look as if to say _yes, I always knew you were just as stupid as Harry_. "Shut up," Gawain tells him, pointing a threatening finger in the dog's face (which Mr Pickle sniffs then licks happily before settling back down), and he lifts the videotape first out of the cardboard box, then out of its blank plastic case.

It's labelled simply on the front, a list of names in neat capitals - Hart, Gilbert, Sazerac, Gibson - above the date of Harry's thirtieth birthday almost a week ago. Other than that, it could be any other video in the cabinet. It seems strange to be holding this thing, this lightweight plastic box of reels and ribbon that's travelled across a continent and an ocean like a thread linking Harry to home. There's a thrilling twist of excitement in Gawain's chest at the thought of it, the same way he feels carrying out the quick, intricate assassination missions he's best at, or the surge and crash of heat that still rockets through his core every time Harry comes home from a tryst with Victoria with bite marks on his arse and shining, sated eyes.

He draws the living room curtains against the possibility of prying nosy neighbours, and slides the video into the player.

For an odd moment he thinks the tape is blank and this is all some kind of bizarre misunderstanding, before the deep blackness on the screen is broken by a widening rectangle of light, an opening door, and a jumble of figures silhouetted in it one by one as they come into the room. One of the men - huge, well over six feet tall and as broad as a truck - steps around the restraint bench in the middle of the floor and fiddles under the shades of a couple of lamps, finally finding the dimmer switches and easing the light up to a soft, burnished glow that seems to soak into the guy's skin, turning him to gold at the hands and the handsome face above the neck of his black t-shirt. The second man into the room is someone Gawain recognises at once, remembers him from a shared mission in Washington D.C. last year: Statesman Agent Gibson, wearing far more clothes now than he had been the last time Gawain saw him. Then, he'd spent what felt like forever kneeling on the carpet in their cramped hotel room with his face buried enthusiastically between Harry's arse cheeks until Harry was pleading rapturously for mercy, and Gawain, watching from an armchair in the corner with a glass of whisky and a cigarette he kept forgetting to smoke, quietly taught Gibson the quickest way to finger Harry into a sobbing puddle.

Behind them is Harry wearing his charcoal pinstripe suit and a blindfold tied around his eyes. Gawain's stomach does that happy little roar again at the sight of him, goosebumps travelling in a rush up his spine and down his arms. He keeps wondering if he might begin to get over Harry at least a little bit, waiting with some trepidation for something to shift and this thing between them to start feeling comfortably, pleasantly boring - but it's been years now and somehow the comfort and the settling into routine is managing to exist alongside this colossal sensation of a love that follows him around like a shadow and sticks tendril-like fingers in his mouth to choke him any time he stops thinking about Harry for more than five seconds at a time. _We're not healthy_ , he said once, years ago now, in some rare moment of terrified doubt, but Harry kissed his fingers even though they were still greasy and sticky with come and lube, and said _A thousand Hollywood dreck merchants couldn't write me as happy as I am right now. Barbara bloody Cartland couldn't do it._

On the screen, Ira is holding Harry's hands behind his back and murmuring something in his ear which the camera isn't quite picking up. Gawain recognises him from the snapshots Harry's sent him of their dinner dates and frolics in the sea and mornings curled possessively around one another in bed in a way Harry's never done with anyone except Gawain before, not even Victoria. He's taller than Harry, only just, and broader in the chest and arms. Even if Gawain didn't already know he was in the U.S. Air Force, there's something in his posture and movements that blares out _military_ ; no wonder Harry's so besotted with him, really. He always had a laughable weakness for pilot uniforms, especially worn by people who could break both his arms with no effort at all but choose to worship him instead like some beautiful golden idol.

"How many are you?" Harry asks. He's not nervous; he's leaning back against the breadth of Ira's chest, relaxed but glimmering with anticipation he's barely making any attempt to repress.

Behind him, Ira curls an arm around Harry's body and hauls him even closer, sliding one hand down over the front of his trousers to stroke him through the fabric. "Including you?" he murmurs, teasing lightly and grinning wide when Harry laughs. "Four including you. Five, I guess, including the camera."

Harry perks up even more at that like a meerkat who just heard a noise. "There's a camera?"

"Is that okay?"

"Yes," Harry says immediately, " _yes_ , of course, always. May I show it to Gawain?"

Ira glances directly at the camera when Harry says that with an amused and glorious smile that feels like a greeting and a gift in one. "He shouldn't have to miss your birthday party."

He turns Harry around and kisses him then, and Gawain finds himself holding his breath as he sees for the first time how easily they fit together. Harry's built for speed and subterfuge, long and slender in his tailored suit, and though he's strong enough to take down an entire battalion of enemy fighters single-handedly he looks small against Ira somehow, enfolded in his arms and pressed to his wide chest. Gawain can see Harry trembling against him, kissing back and playing his fingers up and down the cables of Ira's jumper as though he's searching for a better handhold, as though he's afraid he might stumble and shatter the moment.

Gawain makes himself exhale, long and slow, hungrily watching Ira's hand glide gently up to rest on the back of Harry's neck; it's just at the spot where Gawain always places his own after the ropes and blades and toys and things are done with, a warm and steady weight to anchor Harry to reality when he's so high on the chemicals flooding his body that he can't even focus his eyes. There's something decadently romantic about the two of them like this, settling against one another with a fondness and familiarity that seems like it should have taken them years longer than these few rushed months to find. They could almost be one of the flawless, swooning, softly-lit couples in the old films Harry loves so much. It seems fitting that they're in Los Angeles for all of this, and in front of the camera.

At the left of the screen, Gibson and Sazerac are chatting in low voices, laughing a bit, acting like they're not in a room two feet away from a restraint bench, five feet from a man they're about to fuck kissing his beautiful Air Force boyfriend who set the whole thing up. Gawain wants to know more about them suddenly - their real names, what sort of things they like, how they look when they're fighting or working out or sleeping, whether they've done anything like this before, how they know Ira, how they reacted when he invited them into all of this - but he's distracted by Ira finally moving away from Harry just enough to begin tugging at his tie.

Ira nods at the others and they come to help, Sazerac slipping Harry's jacket from his shoulders and Gibson beginning to unbuckle his belt. Harry stays statue-still throughout, perfect; being undressed by someone, or several someones, is as natural to him as anything by now. He knows it's one of Gawain's favourite parts to watch - second only to the slow reverse-striptease of him dressing again, when he goes from naked vulnerability to the magnificent, immaculate mask he shows to the rest of the world - and asks, "Ira, which way is the camera?"

"Over here." Gawain watches Ira take Harry's chin in his hand and turn it in the direction of the lens until it almost seems like Harry is looking right through both his blindfold and the television screen, over thousands of miles of space and several days of time right into Gawain's captivated, famished eyes. "Don't worry about it. He'll see you."

Harry makes a stunned little sound at the touch of Gibson's fingers unfastening his trouser buttons, and Sazerac starting on his shirt. "Is everybody here clothed except for me?"

"For now," Ira says mildly, stroking the back of Harry's hair where the blindfold is knotted and occasionally touching one of the other men's shoulders to guide them away from blocking Gawain's view. "I'll put you on your knees in just a moment. Let him see you first."

And then Harry's naked, his shoes and socks vanished away with his trousers, his shirt neatly draped across the back of an armchair with his jacket and discarded tie. Gawain can see his chest moving as he breathes, rapid and shallow at first with the excitement of being looked at and then slower, deeper, as he focuses on controlling himself. For a moment their breaths are in sync, Harry's in California and Gawain's in London, before Harry's shudders out of step again when Ira takes his hand and wraps his fingers close around Gibson's swelling cock, then his other and guides it to Sazerac.

"You wanna kneel for me now?" he murmurs, lips brushing the back of Harry's ear and making him shiver. When Harry nods Ira guides him down, fingertips lightly twisted in Harry's hair to urge him forward until he laughs, giddy and breathless, and swipes his tongue over the tip of Sazerac's cock he's holding possessively in his hand. "That's it," Ira says, crooning and reverent. His eyes are on Harry's face like stroking fingertips, travelling all over the lines of his blindfold and the stretch of his wet hungry mouth opening around first Sazerac's cock, then Gibson's, back and forth between the two of them to coax them to hardness. Gawain wonders how carefully Ira chose his co-stars for this, whether the size of them is deliberate - the size of their whole bodies, immense muscled arms and chests and thighs that make Harry look like a tiny doll in comparison, as well as the size of their cocks which are huge even for Harry's ridiculous tastes. There's spit drooling down his chin, shining on his red mouth, dripping in rivulets down both the cocks he's sucking in turn and easing the slide of his hands. He could take them deeper - Gawain knows from years of watching him that Harry's never yet met a cock he can't take right into his throat and swallow around like it's nothing, no matter how pornstar-huge - but the novelty of two at once when he more often only has to concentrate on one is making him go more slowly, making him think about it and plan and figure out what he's doing. Even like this, hair starting to stick to his sweaty forehead and throat distending in pulses from the greedy thrust of dicks the size of beer bottles, Gawain can see Harry's beautiful mind whirring like the workings of a pocket watch as he learns what they like, how to give them what they want from him and take his own in return. He finds his rhythm eventually, settles into it down there on his knees on the plush blue carpet, giving Gibson control of his mouth and letting Sazerac pound fitfully into the clasped circle of both his hands.

Gawain's held breath staggers out of him like he's been punched in the stomach. On the screen he sees Ira do exactly the same and it surprises a woozy laugh out of him to know that just for a single moment, though they're separated by so much, the two of them together had held so much of what they love about Harry between them, pressed against both of their hearts. California somehow seems closer now he knows Harry's in good hands out there.

"Come here," Ira says, and Gawain watches Harry slip his red raw mouth off Gibson's cock and sit back on his heels, leaning against Ira's shins and breathing raggedly, desperately, like he's just come out the other side of a twelve-on-one fight. He tips his head back as if to gaze up at Ira, despite the blindfold, smiling giddily when Ira begins to stroke gentle dancing fingers up and down the line of his battered throat. "Do you know where we are?"

"I counted the turns from the beach house." Harry's voice sounds painful, raspy and gorgeous as though the refined notes of his accent have been artfully sandpapered around the edges. "And I recognised the feel of the balustrade when we came upstairs. This is the club you brought me to last month. Though we're not in the bar we were in before," he adds, smirking just slightly as if to explain that he wouldn't really mind all that much if they were.

"Maybe next time," Ira says, warm and amused, stroking Harry's sweaty hair back from his hot forehead. "No cameras allowed in the public areas." Then he reaches down for Harry's shoulder and tugs it gently, encouraging him to crawl forward a few steps until his hand meets the base of the bench. Harry follows it higher, palms sliding smoothly up the varnished wooden base and onto the black vinyl ledges either side, to the straps and buckles fixed there, moving higher still to find the top ledge like the tapered surface of a gym horse. It's familiar to him, of course; he's very well acquainted with a similar one an occasional partner of his owns in London. _I was frequently beaten over a gym horse at boarding school_ , he told Gawain, running his hand covetously across the leather surface of it and sounding far more cheerfully nostalgic about the whole thing than he probably should. _They never quite caught on to how little I'd get in trouble if only they'd stop threatening me with the cane_.

"Oh," Harry says in the tone of a little girl discovering she's getting a pony for Christmas.

"Would you get on here for me?"

He obeys at once, unfurling himself to his feet and climbing onto the bench to straddle the top of it. Sazerac and Gibson help him into place and, after a nod from Ira, begin to buckle the straps around Harry's knees and ankles, around his wrists and elbows where they're braced on the arm rests. When he's bound they take his mouth again, Sazerac parting Harry's lips with fingers hooked roughly around the edge of his teeth and holding him wide for Gibson to fuck back inside, over his tongue and into the throbbing sore heat of his tight throat. It's not as rough as before, the angle Harry's bound to prevents it, but the pretty flush in his cheeks glows bright on the screen, as predictable as the tides, and Gawain looks away from his face to watch him yank and struggle against the straps holding him down. There's no doubt at all that Harry could Houdini his way out of this in half a second if he wanted to, but that's never mattered before and doesn't matter now; it's the idea of it more than anything, the game of it all, and he loses himself in the thrill of friction on his wrists and in his throat, pulling ferociously at the bonds even as he's sucking Sazerac's fingers greedily into his sloppy wet mouth alongside Gibson's cock.

Gawain's too enthralled by what's going on at Harry's head to notice what Ira's up to, so he realises at the exact moment Harry does: watching Harry tense up, laugh shakily, and melt bonelessly on the bench when Ira presses a wet fingertip inside him. He's gentler than Gawain usually is, perhaps not as certain yet where Harry's limits are - not quite convinced that he doesn't have any - and takes such care preparing him that by the time he steps back, satisfied, Harry is whimpering helplessly and drool is streaming from the corners of his lips onto the carpeted floor because he's too worked up to remember how to swallow around the cock and fingers still wedging his mouth open.

"Here," Ira says, beckoning for one of the agents to take his place. Gawain watches avidly as Sazerac steps around to the back of the bench where Harry's tied down and presented so exquisitely, and in a single sublime movement fits the entire length of his colossal cock inside Harry's soaking arsehole. They make a noise, shared, a broken discordant beautiful little groan of pleasure, and then Sazerac shifts his hips back and eases in again, still slowly, and again, a little harder.

"Fffuck," Harry says, gasps, and Ira strokes his hair until Harry turns his head, cheek pressed to the black vinyl cushion, facing him for instructions even though he can't see.

"You wanna open your mouth again for me, take two at once? Or are we gonna line up and all use this incredible ass?"

"Well, you know how the English feel about orderly queues," Harry says. His grin turns to a spurt of laughter, slapped out of him by Ira's hand sharply striking his arse, and he darts forward as far as he can against the drag of his arm restraints until somehow he finds Ira's other hand like he's got bloody sonar or something and sucks two fingers into his mouth. It's far too hungry and messy to be as seductive as Gawain thinks he means to be, but Ira's eyes go molten hot at the action and Gawain can see him pressing down on Harry's tongue, sliding deeper into the pull of his mouth, searching for a gag reflex that doesn't exist. "Please," Harry says hoarsely, releasing him, "my mouth, please, let me--"

Gibson grabs him by the hair when Ira gives the ok nod, fitting his dripping cock back past the stretch of Harry's reddened lips and shoving in hard until Harry can't breathe. Gawain can always tell when he's full to the point of air deprivation: Harry goes as still as a corpse when usually he's an extravagant fidget, calm, entirely focused, always aware of himself and how much more he can handle. He only ever lets go completely when he's with Gawain - lets himself give into it, stops thinking like a survivor, simply trusts that he'll be looked after. It's a strange and interesting sort of jolt to realise that even with the way they are together, the _cuddling_ and sweet words and confused, tentative declarations of love, there's still a part of Harry that's not Ira's yet, though Gawain thinks it may well be soon. He leans in, elbows on his knees, scrutinising their faces on the television screen for every question and answer and half-formed hint he can make out, and realises Ira is doing exactly the same: watching Harry, watching the other two, directing them with stop-and-go hand gestures or quick little touches on the arms. A curl of something lovely unfolds in Gawain's stomach, warm and pleased; Harry chose well with this one.

He's pleading again on the video, or at least making pleading wordless sounds around the cock he's sucking, too restricted by the buckled straps to get himself off easily against the cushioned top of the bench he's lying on. Ira stills him even so, stroking one huge hand down Harry's sweating back to rest right at the base of his spine and urging him to settle until the only movement on the entire screen is coming from either end of him, Gibson and Sazerac using his body fiercely and hard, Harry drawing their pleasure out of them simply by being there, being warm and available and making the right whining little begging sounds when they catch their cocks just right against the furnace inside of him.

Gibson comes first, almost silent about it but shattering at the last moment with a groan that shakes the room. He pulses deep in Harry's throat - Gawain can see the movement of his neck as he swallows, greedy and delighted - and when he pulls out the last few spurts make sticky white bubbles at the corner of Harry's lips which he swipes back into his mouth with a drag of his ravenous tongue. "Darling," Harry pleads, his need to be filled up doing just as much to make his voice go rough as the cocks that were just slamming his throat. "I need - Ira, darling, please."

"Alright, easy - there," Ira murmurs, not even taking his trousers down but slipping his cock through his fly and into Harry's desperate mouth. Harry moans a glorious, needy sound through his nose, wriggling again against the bench when Sazerac pulls out and comes in scalding splashes across his arse cheeks and the sweating small of his back. "Give him your fingers," Ira tells him, voice only trembling the slightest bit around the edges. Gawain knows from experience how incredibly fucking difficult it is to keep a brain in your head while Harry's mouth is doing what he loves best, and sympathises even as he's laughing, even as he's boiling over with something that's nothing at all like jealousy and more like an aching, wistful longing to have Harry back him with him, with their idiotic dog in their ridiculous fussy little house, their fortress against the entire world. He watches Sazerac shove two trembling fingers back inside Harry, watches Gibson recover himself and come over to ease another one of his own in and out and in, and then watches what he can see of Harry's face until Harry shudders, losing the rhythm he's giving to Ira with his mouth, and comes without a single deliberate touch to his cock.

"Good," Gawain whispers, too smitten with what he's watching to feel stupid about talking to someone who's not even there. "Harry, so good."

"So good, Harry," Ira murmurs on the screen. He hooks his fingertips under Harry's blindfold to lift it off his head so that when he comes it's with Harry's blazing eyes holding his own and Gawain, a million miles away, rocking hard against the palm pressed between his legs and coughing out a single ragged moan of release shaped like Harry's name.

The video is quiet after that, some murmuring, the winding-down sounds of people checking everyone's feeling alright and the bustle of the other three unfastening Harry's straps and helping him sit up. He leans gratefully against Sazerac's massive chest while Gibson fetches a glass of water and Ira gets a cloth to wipe off the worst of the mess. "Hello," Harry says to his human pillow, tipping his head back to look up at his face. "You're new."

"Agent Sazerac, sir. Very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. Thank you for a lovely evening. Agent Gibson," Harry adds, taking the offered glass from him and raising it in a sort of mock-salute before he sips. "I thought it was you. I'd know that beast of yours anywhere."

Gawain laughs against the back of his hand, shaky and feeling as exhausted as Harry looks on the screen. He means to reach for the phone, tap in the numbers he's had memorised for months and call Harry across the ocean just to listen to him breathe, but the last thing he remembers seeing before he falls asleep with Mr Pickle on the sofa is Harry's face: the way it lights up when Ira joins him on the messy bench, slips an arm around his naked shoulders to draw him close, and kisses him softly on the temple.


End file.
